Tourniquet
by Tindomiel
Summary: As Will Parry goes to pick up his mother after their separation, he muses that perhaps, some wounds never heal.


A/N: This is my first attempt at a song fic. I for one hate reading long lyrics, so I've interspaced the words amid the text. The song is from Evanescence, always a popular band when it comes to depressing vignettes. But the lyrics of this song inspired me, and it's in verse two (Will you be on the other side...) that I am so reminded of Will and Lyra's relationship that I felt I had to (at least try and) write about it. Hope you enjoy.   
Flames are welcome, as always. I always feel cold in the winter. I do not own any of this, save maybe Jane Cooper.

* * *

**Tourniquet  
**  
_ I tried  
To kill the pain,  
But only brought more_  
  
Will knocked at the door furtively, only to find there was a doorbell. He used his left hand to press it, painfully realising his mistake, and covered it up in use of his right one, transferring the carrier bag he was holding to the other hand. He was nervous, and his face was hot. He looked around the quiet empty street fretfully. The grey sky above foreboded rain.  
  
He never forgot that day. That day he lost two fingers. He thought he could still faintly smell the blood, even now.  
  
_ I lie dying_

_ And I'm pouring  
Crimson regret and betrayal_  
  
He thought he would die. Die, watching the witches spell fail, watching his own strength fail. Lyra would weep beside him; Pantalaimon might even deign to stroke him with his beautiful fur. He would like that. To be mourned when he died, like the way he had mourned his father.  
  
_ I'm dying  
  
Praying  
Bleeding  
Screaming  
Am I too lost to be saved?  
Am I too lost?  
_  
The door opened suddenly, and there was a young girl, in her early twenties, looking at him in surprise.  
  
"Yes? Are you bringing the papers?"  
  
Will opened his mouth, but didn't know what to say.  
  
"No," he said, "I've come to take my mother . . ."  
  
"Oh!" the girl smiled instantly, "You're Will Parry! Oh, it's good to see you here. Mrs. Parry has been so anxious about you, mum too. You better have a good reason for taking off like that."  
  
Will didn't know what to say. It seemed strange to his ears after so long to hear his mother referred to as 'Mrs. Parry'.  
  
"Well come in! Don't stand out there."  
  
"W-who are you?"  
  
"I'm Jane. I only came back a week ago, but mum told me about the whole thing. I've had to sleep on the sofa for a week."  
  
But she didn't sound unhappy about it. The girl had a slight Australian accent, and her clothing was a little out of style. She was a student, after all. Will followed her into the hallway that he remembered so well, smelling the pot-pourri and lavender scents for the first time since he had returned to Oxford, had felt truly safe here. Safe. This was the world that he remembered: materialistic, artificial, and narrow-minded. But sane enough, at least. Finally, he was back down to earth.  
  
He waited obediently in the sitting room where Jane had left him, where he had been into before with his mother. In the little sunny alcove stood the piano that he remembered from lessons long ago. He sat down uncertainly on the couch near the small TV. The sofa opposite was covered in pillows and a duvet, and many textbooks and pens. Crumbs and sweet wrappers were lightly sprinkled on the floor. Jane was not that tidy a person, differing to her mother, who had just come in from the poky kitchen. There was a yellow mug of tea in her hand.  
  
"Will!" she sounded joyful, "I see you've met my daughter," He nodded blankly, "So, where have you been all this time? I request an explanation." She said, not unkindly.  
  
Will sipped the tea that she had given him thoughtfully. He tried to think like Lyra did, remember the matter-of-fact way that she talked when she had to lie. It hurt him painfully to remember her, even her voice. Her memory was a sharp pang to his heart, and for a moment, he was disconcerted. He wondered what she would say if he told her that he'd gone on a quest for a knife that could destroy all matter, to save the gift of conscious thought, and battled the armies of Heaven and Earth. He wondered what she would say if he told her he'd fallen in love and had to leave her in another world.  
  
_ My god, my tourniquet  
  
Return to me salvation  
My god, my tourniquet  
Return to me salvation  
  
_God was now officially dead. No use turning to him now.  
  
"I was finding my grandparents . . . because they might know where he was. My father, I mean. To get him to pay up in child support." He coughed nervously.  
  
This was half true; finding his grandparents had been a possible plan B for him when he was on the run. He had considered many things if aught should go wrong. But his living grandparents were in Toronto, and he would never have the money to get to them. He knew they probably didn't give a damn about him. But he had never liked them either. They had severed ties with them since that day, long, long ago, that Elaine had asked them for help, and they had made her leave the house crying. They wouldn't have done it if John Parry had been there. But his father was gone for good now. It did bother him to talk about his father like this, but what else could he say?  
  
"And did you?" the elderly woman said kindly. Will's thoughts were brought back down to earth.  
  
"No." he said, trying to sound rueful, "But everything's alright now. I've found help, 'n' other stuff, so if you don't mind, I'm picking up my mother now. Thank you so much for looking after her, and all. I hope she hasn't been too much trouble."  
  
"Of course not. She's been a wonderful companion." She said 'companion', not 'guest'. Will was a little surprised that she hadn't had one of her bad days, had she got better since then? Or was it that Mrs. Cooper was too polite to mention such things? He suddenly remembered the carrier bag.  
  
"I've got this for you. As a thank you, sort of thing." He mumbled bashfully, giving her a large box of Cadbury's chocolates, careful to use his right hand when handing her it. Mary Malone had paid for it when they returned from Cittagazze the day before. She'd also bought a pizza for them to share in her flat. The memory of that suddenly made him feel hungry.  
  
"Thank you. I've always said you are such a kind and considerate boy. You would never abandon your own mother." Mrs Cooper said gently, and she meant it, "I'm sure Elaine would love one of these. Shall I go get her for you? She's in the bath." Will nodded, consumed by his own thoughts. The elderly woman left.  
  
He waited, alone in that room, and then he immediately and inevitably thought of Lyra.  
  
_Do you remember me?  
Lost for so long?  
Will you be on the other side?  
Or will you forget me?  
_  
If he had the knife, he could cut through to her right from this room. There she was, on the other side, on a different plane of existence. He could talk to her, see her, and touch her face. He wished he had a picture of her to remember by. What if he forgot what she looked like? She could become just another childhood fantasy. What if she forgot him? That would be the greatest cruelty.  
  
God, he loved her. That love would never die. Never. They would meet again, and become part of the world, together, their two souls intermingling in the beautiful world.  
  
A smile flashed momentarily on his face. At least he had a story to tell of now to the harpies. Not that they'd need telling. They would recognise the knife-bearer, even if he were old and unarmed.  
  
His gaze eventually fell onto the old piano. It was pale wood, he couldn't remember the make, but suddenly he felt a strong longing to play again.  
  
Dropping his bag on the green carpet, he headed to the keyboard. There was still some sheet music left over; Mrs. Cooper had recently had a student. He recognised the key of F on the stave. He had played this piece before.  
  
Traumerei, he'd loved that tune.  
  
Unconsciously, his fingers ran over the ivory coloured keys, remembering positions as he went along. Perhaps this was how Lyra felt when he had her athleiometer. He wondered for a moment if she had found a way to learn to read it again. As he though of her, he played a tune, his right hand dancing over the keys.  
  
Fur Elise he played, one of the first songs he'd ever learnt. It sounded beautiful, if a little basic with his skill, but sad also, akin to her tears running down her face at their parting.  
  
He held that memory, closing his eyes tightly so it wouldn't slip away. He saw her hair, her eyes, felt her warm skin, her expression: trying to imprint her image into his mind. Her absence was a wound inside him that would not heal. It could be covered and concealed, but it would always be there. There was no tourniquet to bind that wound, nothing strong enough.  
  
His left hand wandered, and then began to join in the song. Yet there were notes missing.  
  
He stopped, and looked down at his pitiful hand with its missing digits, and felt the faint pain again, the pain of the memory. He imagined he smelt the iron-rust smell again. The smell of his own blood.  
  
_ I'm dying  
Praying  
Bleeding  
Screaming  
Am I too lost to be saved?  
Am I too lost?  
_  
Handicapped. They would ask him about it at school, wonder how that happened. Perhaps the social services would be called. He couldn't get away with it without questions being asked. With Mary's advice, they'd decided on a story, and in it, it was due to a 'nasty machinery accident' that he had the deformity. That would prevent most people from asking too much. Hopefully. But it wouldn't stop the teasing from the boys at school. Then again, he no longer cared about them. He was strong enough to beat three of them up at once, knife or no knife.  
  
But he could never play the piano again. He doubted he could even climb a rope.  
  
Perhaps it was anger, most likely grief, but he slammed the lid down firmly, and then he couldn't help it: tears flowed. The came and they came and he couldn't stop them. Sorrow running rivers over his face, unstopping, unceasing, like the wound that poured in torrents inside.  
  
"Will..."  
  
He knew that voice. He missed it so, but he knew he would hear it again, but never imagining that it would be here, now.  
  
"Mum..."  
  
Elaine Parry's hair was still wet, but that didn't stop her son from flinging himself into her arms. Her warm musky scent came back to him, and he never realised until the sheer ache of his homesickness. He sobbed and wept, and Mrs. Cooper and her daughter Jane cried a little too at this reunion. For them, they would never know the true cause of those tears. They would never know the whole story.  
  
"Oh Will I've missed you so much. You don't know what I've been through, I love you so much; I love you." Her words were muffled through the tears.  
  
They talked, they embraced lovingly. Will felt he was wandering in a strange dream. He couldn't remember the conversation that ensued afterwards, or who said what; only that he spoke little at all, and he kept his left hand in his pocket at all times. It seemed like a drifting age that he sat there, and smiled, and nodded, and reminisced. He noticed little things, the way his mother laughed and smiled so openly at his little jokes, the way Mrs. Cooper and her daughter treated her as if she were a favoured aunt or relative. It relieved him to think that he had found another trustee in his former piano teacher. Yet something inside him wondered what it was about his mother that made the retired music teacher never try to give her in to the authorities. Why didn't Mrs. Cooper ever surrender this strange burden?  
  
_ My god, my tourniquet  
Return to me salvation  
My god my tourniquet  
Return to me salvation  
_  
Fifteen minutes later, Will and Elaine were waving at Mrs. Cooper and her daughter from the gate. Will smiled, tears in his eyes. Elaine was laughing at him. She looked healthier than he'd ever seen her. Her eyes were bright and her skin glowed. She turned and waved as well. Will let go of her arm. She didn't need his support now. Soon, he would show her his hand. He had a feeling she wouldn't doubt what he said after that. She was not always sane, but she knew the truth when she heard it. She wasn't crazy.  
  
Mary was waiting for them inside the car, an old 4-door Rover, courtesy of Oliver Payne as part of a 'please forgive me I was wrong' campaign. She stuck her head out of the window, saying the words he expected and anticipated.  
  
"So how did it go?"  
  
He grinned, and helped his mother inside the rear seat.  
  
"It was alright." He got into the passenger seat, "Thanks for the chocolates."  
  
"No problem," Mary said and started the car, "My place, right? Hello Mrs. Parry, Will's told me so much about you." Elaine looked surprised, but pleased. She acknowledged this greeting and the two of them chatted for the rest for the journey. Will listened, but said nothing.  
  
Will pressed his face against the window. A sense of relief washed over him, and he knew that from now on, things could only get better. He felt happy. Yes, that's what it was. He was happy. His head was light and he felt elevated. The sun had never shone so brightly.  
  
But something inside him was still bleeding.  
  
_My wounds cry for the grave  
My soul cries for deliverance  
Will I be denied?  
Christ – tourniquet  
My suicide _


End file.
